


once in prague

by Ariasune



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-29
Updated: 2014-05-29
Packaged: 2018-01-27 02:30:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1711697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ariasune/pseuds/Ariasune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anon calthazar prompt: </p>
<p>I just have a lot of feels about Cas running into human!Balthazar(who doesn't remember being an angel) and then having this amazing connection right off the bat and Cas being so conflicted</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Balthazar

**o.**

He meets him in Prague - the Museum of Medieval Torture Instruments to be exact - and it is somehow the most fitting place for it. He is standing, spine straight, and staring intently at a series of choke pears laid out in a neat row. Arms tucked behind his back like folded wings, and eyebrows furrowed. He doesn't notice Cas as Cas studies how he - still as usual - has scruff around his mouth, and a taunt look in his eyes. Still wears blacks and greys.

At first, Cas can't be sure if this is him, because of course, Cas laid him to rest years before. He knows this, because the guilt used to throttle him. He knows this, because it was by his blade, by his hand, with dusted wings by his feet. Despite this, Cas is - for the first time in far too long - able to breathe, and he takes it so heavily, he looks up.

" **Mohu vám pomoci?** " And his voice has the swing, and the lilt, the tip and the sway that Cas knows belongs to his friend. More precisely, his dead friend. His dead friend who is gleaming in front of him, with a soul that flickers peacefully around its edges. His dead friend who is human.

" **Can I help you?** " He repeats in English

"You remind me of someone I used to know," Cas blurts out, also in English.

"Used to know?" He turns back to the pears of anguish, "Well that's no good, now is it-" He looks up, but Cas has fled, fled in a wingbeat, his heart hammering between his ribs and his grace pulsing madly. "Rude," The man decides, and cants his hips to the left, as he adjusts his footing.

 

**i.**

Cas first met Balthazar as the universe crashed into existence. It rained and it stormed, contracting and extracting, and they stood firm, as the laws of the universe were churned into clarity. Back then, he was Castiel - of God - and Balthazar named for some man who would not be born yet, part of a species that did not exist yet, on a world that had not formed yet, and all of it more important than the flickering angel at Cas' side.

Absently, in the way of angels, they drifted towards each other like fireflies in the dark, or sycamore seeds cast from a tree . Pressing together, in moments across the space and time of their hands, wings, eyelids, bones. They greeted each other, as though wolves sniffing noses, running muzzle to muzzle, for they were Powers. Liquid weaponry given shape, feral faith given sharp form. Never hammers, never tools - they were swords, the living extension of the reach of God, they were weapons. They existed as verbs.

Being, touching, watching, as the universe formed endless clutches of stars, deep trenches of dark matter, long coils of gravity and inertia.

 

**ii.**

"No, I know you," Balthazar tells him, when a startled glance is caught in a small café in Budapest. "Charles Bridge, right? That godawful torture museum?" He barks out a laugh, and Castiel has the abrupt memory of standing on the precipice of the universe, Balthazar's grace laughing in delight next to him. This laugh is shorter, crisper, even - but it's happy, and Castiel regrets hearing it. "You stared at me like a dog with a bone."

"I apologize," Castiel manages.

Balthazar waves an easy hand, "Think nothing of it, really," He gestures at the seat opposite him, "But do grace me with your company - what brings you to Hungary."

Castiel was there to pick up a small relic, which is whispering dirty jokes in sumerian in his pocket, "Shopping."

"Huh," Balthazar scratched his chin. "Not the most intuitive place for shopping, but I can scarcely talk," He grinned. "Just here for sightseeing," Abruptly he struck out his hand, "Sorry, how awful of me, I'm Bastien."

"Cas," Cas took the hand, felt the thin strength of a human squeeze tight around his fingers.

"That short for anything?" Balthazar - Bastien - asks curiously.

"Castiel - my father was quite interested in angelology."

"Oh how unfortunate, still, one can hardly talk," Balthazar - Bastien, Bastien - indicates himself. "My father liked Shakespeare; I was almost a Balthazar, you know the crossdresser from The Merchant of Venice?"

"Or the follower of Don Pedro from Much Ado about Nothing, merchant from The Comedy of Errors and-"

"And another minor role in Romeo and Juliet," Baltha- Bastien laughs. "Well as you can see I got off rather lightly, Bastien isn't nearly so bad." Basthazar smiled, "So what brought you to Prague?"

A haunted torture pyramid. 

"Sightseeing," Cas answered easily, the table solid underneath his hands. "You speak czech?"

"A bit of everything actually," Balthien looked a little wry, "I think when God was handing out the stat points, he decided I needed languages more than I needed anything else," Balthazar - because trying to call this man Bastien isn't working - nodded thoughtfully, "It's why I spend most of my time travelling - seize the day, use what you've been given, you know all that."

"Yes, I understand," Cas gave an even nod of agreement. "Do you have any language preferences?"

"Well I was raised on French and Latin," Balthazar says after a moment.

 **"Curae lingua educatum parentes vestros?** " **Your parents cared for your language education?**

" **Sic.** " **Yes.**

" **Combien de langues parlez-vous?** " **How many languages do you speak?**

" **Hontoni, oboetenai.** " **Truly, I can't remember.**

" **Oi camliaxis adgteh?** " **Do you speak this?**

"Sorry," Balthazar shrugged. "That's not one I know."

"It's fairly obscure," Cas admits.

"Whatever it is, it sounds gorgeous," Balthazar took a sip of his drink, and pushed the map of the city away from his spot. "You seem to be quite a cunning linguist yourself," Balthazar has an expression as though butter wouldn't melt in his mouth, and it's achingly familiar.

"It's called Enochian," Cas says the word, shyly, bringing something now irrelevant before Balthazar. He isn't sure if he wants Balthazar to fall to his knees and worship it, or he just wants Balthazar's ignorance - because Balthazar is happier than Cas has seen him in so long. He is easy, all hands, and relaxed coils. He is so human, Cas wants to venerate Balthazar down to each rib, and every tendon. Cas simply has no idea how to reconcile that feeling, with how much he longs for Balthazar to recognize, and speak easily in their native tongue.

"Oh, I've heard of that," Balthazar leans across the table. "You weren't kidding when you said your father was into angelology, that's angel talk isn't it? Angel babble?"

"Yes," Their first language - their mother tongue, father tongue even - is irrelevant to Balthazar; it is no longer sacred. It is interesting, and obscure, and painfully meaningless. "It is not dissimilar to Latin."

"Oh," Balthazar gazes at Cas through fine lashes, familiar but coated in humanity, "I don't suppose you'd be giving lessons? I'm a quick student."

"Yes, of course."

 

**iii.**

He stays for an entire week, and by the end of it, Balthazar is rolling Enochian off his tongue, as though he has been speaking it since the stars were hung in the sky. Balthazar pays him in experiences - a shared bottle of red wine one night, an old movie in french the next, a long walk as the sun goes down, a plate of homemade carbonara, that Balthazar cooks as easily as he shifts from language to language.

Cas puzzles out more of Balthazar's history as Balthazar learns to conjugate. He knows that Balthazar did not exist until four years ago, but has a deceased father, absentee (and likely, dead) mother, and that he has wandered through life like a skittering insect over a pond. Barely dipping his toes into human existence - no such thing as roots - instead here, and then there. He lives off a trust fund, that Cas traces back to Balthazar - the angel, the one he knew - that Bastien has fallen into by default.

Cas is not sure how Balthazar is alive, and it seems neither is Balthazar, but Cas prays to his Father in words of thanks and relief every night that week.

 

**iv.**

Balthazar speaks so naturally in the perfect case, it is only nearing the end of the week when he asks for the imperfect. Cas is not sure how to answer him, because when angels speak, their grace stutters, halts, a heart-attack of intent, because angels do not think in perfect case. It is strange, odd, something exceptional to convey, so their grace freezes up in their leylines.

Cas does not know how to tell Balthazar to raise his wings, cut his own heart out, die for a moment.

"There is no imperfect case," Cas tells him instead.

"Well, that's just perfect," Balthazar laughs between his teeth, and they are stained rich purple with wine. He takes a delicate, throaty sip, and sets his glass aside. His hands are airy, light, feathery as they settle around Cas' face. Cupping it, as he leans forward and Cas can taste earthy, rich wine on his lips. It's so chaste, it tastes as though it is a benediction, and when Balthazar pulls away, Cas kisses his brow with all his grace stuttering.

But when Balthazar presses forward, all hands all over again, Cas veers back, "I'm sorry," Cas mumbles, because it doesn't make much sense, but he has a very annoying, winchestery groan in the back of his head. It sounds suspiciously like Dean Winchester and his brand of advice, and it definitely sounds like he said cocktease.

Balthazar exhales hard, and long, looking Cas up and down for a moment, "Oh stop with the puppy dog eyes Cassie, you'd think you murdered my grandmother with a face like that," Balthazar gives one of those easy, happy smiles, and picks his glass up again. He drains it in one go, "Instead of imperfect tense, is it just constantly in the perfect tense?"

 

**v.**

They part ways not two days later, Balthazar said something about travelling on, or perhaps it was moving on. Charmingly, he asked if Cas would like to accompany him, but Cas has already lingered too long in Budapest. He has work to do, and miracles to apportion, and cannot continue to spend so many hours in Europe.

 

**vi.**

"Cassie," Cas stares up from the cheeseburger Dean has ordered for him, towards the door. But the voice is familiar, he has heard it slip through a dozen languages, and he heard it as the first creature drew itself up from the sea (it made a tastelessly glib remark about inventing tartare sauce). "Long time no see!"

Balthazar settles in the seat next to Sam, ignoring the gapes that Sam - and Dean - are giving him. Instead he reaches over to snag one of Cas' fries and dips it meaningfully in the ketchup. Cas quickly kicks Dean under the table.

"Long time no see," He struggles for a moment, before continuing, "Bastien," He eyes Sam across the table, and can feel Dean's gaze flick hot to his. They are both quickly catching on. "How long have you been in America?"

"Popped over a few weeks ago," Bastien reaches for another fry, before looking up with a grin. "Imagine my surprise when I saw you in the window," Balthazar - because Cas may call him Bastien to his face, but he will never think it - looks over at Sam, "Well do shut your mouth before you catch fries."

"Will you be staying long?" Cas tries for casual, but it sticks in his throat, lumpy and uncertain. He feels like Balthazar is some shameful secret he has kept - something sacred and precious he has hidden - and judging by how Sam and Dean are glancing towards him furiously - it was shameful to do so.

"Who knows," Balthazar shrugs, and peers down at the sigils Cas was showing Dean. "Oh I know this," He picks it up and narrows his gaze, licking a fleck of salt off his lips, "Something about protection?" He drops it breezily back to the table. "So who are your friends, Cas? You haven't introduced us, I'm afraid I'm at a complete loss."

"This is Sam and Dean Winchester," Cas nods at each in turn, and then his lips thin carefully, "Sam, Dean, this is Bastien, I met him whilst travelling in Hungary."

"Well we met in Prague," Balthazar laughs. "He looked like he'd seen a ghost."

"Oh, I'll bet," Dean murmured, and Cas isn't sure what that's meant to mean, because yes - Cas has seen ghosts before - and yes - Balthazar should rightly be one.

"At any rate, Cas here very thoughtfully taught me some of that Enochian stuff his father taught him," Balthazar grinned, "So, you three go way back then?" Balthazar rakes a gaze over the group, and takes another fry from Cas' plate.

"A number of years," Cas says quietly, and Balthazar laughs again, the sound bright like colliding planets and chorusing nebulae.

 

**vii.**

"What the hell Cas?" Is the first thing Dean says to him once Balthazar has shrugged off to buy wine with Sam. 

"God brought Balthazar back," Cas explains, and when Dean is dissatisfied, Cas explains again, and when Sam and Balthazar return, they drink together. By the end of it the humans - including Balthazar, who is tangled up, and slurring - are drunk, all of them showing off their relative tolerance for alcohol. Cas is an angel, and he is extremely sober, so he pulls Sam and Dean into one bed, and then Balthazar into another.

Balthazar has a dizzy grip on him, giggling and laughing and - Cas' heart is in his throat - talking in Enochian, " **Orsbus orbusma,** " Balthazar struggles out with a snicker, and Cas tucks Balthazar's limbs into the bed, as the angel tells Cas that **he is drunk, he is definitely drunk**.

The familiar gleam of Balthazar's far too human soul glitters, as Balthazar wraps both hands round the back of Cas' neck. Normally Cas would have pushed any who held him there away. He would have recognized the threat, but Balthazar is not threatening him. The non-angel is affectionate, a pool of curiousity, trying to pull Cas down to kiss the air out of him, even though Balthazar could try and try and would never drink it all.

" **Nonci omasus** , **I, I know you,** **omasus** ," Balthazar's voice is high and thin, and worn down. " **Nonci omasus, iasma ar?** "

" **That is true** ," Cas ducks his head in agreement, and Balthazar is arching off the bed like a cupid's bow, his spine tight, biting into Cas' lip. He tastes as Cas remembers - a mouth open and deep red and sharp, pungent with drink. A gulp of wine for fortitude, and a drunken swallow of air.

Cas pulls away again, and pushes Balthazar down onto the bed, releasing the arc of his spine, and Balthazar's drifting blue eyes gaze up at him so frankly, " **Etharzi esiasch olo,** " And Cas' mind translates it into english, and back again: **peace, my brother**.

" **Papboraseh?** " Cas asks. " **Esiasch ar chisziramus?** "

 **Do you remember** , he is begging, **that we were brothers**.

But Balthazar is laughing again, all soft lines and curves and flickers of soul, and shakes his head at Cas. "God," He rolls the word through his mouth. "I have never believed in Heaven, but you- -you?" Whatever it is that Cas gives Balthazar (and he hopes it is faith) it is cut off with another peal of laughter.

 

**viii.**

Dean allows Balthazar to stay, but it would make little difference, because Balthazar is already halfway through the door, running a hand through mussed curls, "Oh no I couldn't possibly," Balthazar snorts, "I've already made such an ass of myself, I honestly don't know why I didn't hit the road sooner."

As the door clicks shut behind Balthazar, Dean nods in his direction, "Flyboy going to be okay?"

"He is warded," Cas murmurs: he had done it in Hungary, in searing lines over Balthazar's ribs, patterns in every bone, god forbid Balthazar get an x-ray, before they are absorbed into the bone. But Balthazar is healthier than any human has a decent right to be; there are things leftover. Twists in the brain, like language, and turns in the body, like health.

"You can go with him, you know," Dean says, and Sam gives an enthusiastic nod of agreement. A word of encouragement, but Cas shakes his head.

"No, it is alright, we have work to do here."

 

**ix.**

Bastien drinks too much, but then everybody Cas knows drinks too much. It's still impressive that an angel - even one no longer - should join that description, but Bastien drinks too much. His mouth is always wet whenever he kisses Cas, and he does, he does so often. His mouth is dark and demanding and thirsty, and it disturbs Cas.

Because Bastien is not Balthazar - Cas has dug into his history, and Bastien does not exist, and Cas has spoken to Bastien and underneath a fine veil of amnesia, is Balthazar. Balthazar who tried everything, and regrets nothing, who kisses Cas when he's human, and regrets it when Cas pulls away.

Cas does not know what he has done, to pull Balthazar just so. Even chance encounters end up heated, or playful, or bright, and Balthazar - who is still human, and does not know who or what he is - stands there, all angles;

"I've given up on being upset about this," Balthazar's words are sharp, and acrid like vinegar, "I'm angry about it now: I want you."

"I'm sorry," Cas replies honestly.

Balthazar's eyes flicker for a moment, not taken aback, but not pleased either, "I'm not angry with you," He frowns, "I'm angry with me; don't ever assume I'm angry at you about this, think better of me."

Something - Cas is none too sure of what - must pass between them, because Balthazar steps in towards him. All hands, and sad, easy smiles, cants in just enough to drink Cas' air. He tastes like rust, like copper and for once, he tastes like blood and water and skin and human, instead of wine and decadence. Cas lets Balthazar wind his fingers in his hair, and line their bodies together.

He doesn't know what he has done to Balthazar, that this is all they amount to.

 

**x.**

Dean supplies the answer, over three beers, and a cautious, sad expression in his green eyes, "You haven't done anything," Cas' friend tells him. "He probably loves you."

"Oh," Cas thinks. "But he doesn't know who I am; he can't remember."

"Angels are stubborn," Dean is definitely laughing at Cas, "It's probably one of those things that just sorta' stuck, like that polyglot thing."

Dean is suggesting that Balthazar has always loved him, "That's absurd, angels don't love like that," It is absurd.

The cautious look thickens, and Dean drinks it back with a bob of his adam's apple, toss of beer, "How 'bout you?"

"I-" Cas frowns, "I am an angel."

"Yes, had noticed," Dean sets his beer down, and looks Cas squarely in the eyes, "How about you?"

 

**xi.**

"You will never speak to me again," Castiel holds Balthazar's hands between his. He has his wings wrapped around them, even though Balthazar does not have wings to feel it. "You will tell me to leave you alone," Balthazar blinks, puzzled. He opens his mouth to talk, and Castiel shakes his head, "Don't, please."

"Okay," Balthazar clicks his mouth closed quietly, and his blue eyes are bright enough to scare Castiel.

"You were not born human," Castiel begins, already disconnecting from the conversation, because Balthazar will turn on him at best (angry, frightened, disagreeable) and at worst, Balthazar will turn from him. Will walk away, and Castiel will never see him alive again. But he cannot bear to have Balthazar always canting, and tipping, tilting towards him like Castiel is mangetized, blood singing and Balthazar is just iron files and ferro fluids.

Castiel cannot bear Balthazar's love, without Balthazar understanding what Castiel understands. Even though Balthazar will not understand. So, Castiel persists, voice dull, eyes downcast, hands tight around Balthazar and wings furled round them.

"You were born a creature of celestial intent, your wings weapons, your eyes wavelengths of light," Castiel's voice breaks. "We watched the Universe born," He ducks his head, as though in prayer. "We fought for our Father, you were an Angel," He swallowed, shaking, "We fought in a war together - a war you did not want - and when I, when I acted as though ends justify means, you tried to save me," Castiel doesn't know how to explain this, "And I stabbed you in the back."

There is a long, horrible silence, and Castiel swallowed, the guilt back, full-throttle in his throat. Each inch of his vessel burning with regret, and Balthazar is so real, and so alive in front of him. 

"I do not know why you have been revived," Castiel spoke into the silence, if only to delay Balthazar pulling from him. Or perhaps provoke it; as though leaping headfirst into icy water is better than to walk in slowly. "Or why you are human," Castiel's throat is blocking up again. "I know that I cannot be what you need, and cannot accept anything you have to give," Castiel cannot raise his eyes to meet Balthazar's, "But I am in your debt, and I will give anything you ask - but I cannot have you ignorant of what I have done to you, of what you and I were. I cannot be wanted if you do not understand what that means to you and me."

 

**xii.**

He finally raises his eyes to Balthazar's, which are wide, and raw, and bright with the roar of something inherently inhuman. Castiel watches, now too strung out for words, as Balthazar's soul splinters and rends open: splaying out two bony, thin wings and Balthazar is gone with a crackle of feathers.

 

**xiii.**

He is doing the work of an absent God, meticulously and smoothly burning through demons, when, the tip and sway of a voice rolls nearby. He is not sure if he should turn, so instead he holds perfectly still, shuts his eyes, and listens;

"Well, Cassie, you must be holy fire, because I am well and truly stuck on you."


	2. Castiel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From Balthazar's POV

**o.**

Balthazar comes to himself, and abruptly loses himself once more; no more than a flicker of discovery, left lost upon his mind.

 

**i.**

He wakes up cold, panting into the night air like his lungs have been wrung out. Shuddering, he curls over in his bed, pressing a hand to his forehead. He feels absolutely ruined, and he's swallowing gasps like he has come to life that night. They are desperate and greedy in his throat, but his heart is practically chorusing with how fast it's hammering. He runs his fingers through his hair, clenching his teeth and trying to slow the frantic flickering of his lungs.

His breathing slows, his heart settles, but he's filled with dread and his back is stinging, so he kicks his feet over the edge of his bed. He sighs, a murmur of quiet french. Soothes himself with the hoarse sound of his own voice.

He shuffles uneasily towards the window, and shuts it after a long moment. Not before inhaling a good few gulps of fresh air, and it smells like autumn. Even in the dim light, he can see the tops of the oak trees are stuck somewhere between amber and green. It's crisp and clear outside, a light breeze on his bare skin. It's autumn. Certainly. He has the abrupt feeling it's a little after the middle of the night. Balthazar has the sudden sense of having no idea where he is.

But this is his house; this is Leyswood House. At the end of Corseley Road, in vague, and informal Groombridge. He grew up here. He knows where he is. He ran under the amber-spotted trees, and almost poisoned himself on acorns. But Bastien Roché-Coster can't remember his father's face clearly, it's been years since the old man died.

He presses his hand back against his face, and hums into it. Reaches for the clothes slung over his dumb butler.

Balthazar ends up walking bare-foot down the road, wandering through the bracken grass. It's slightly damp on his heels, and the night is still licking icily down the back of his neck, but he walks to the end of the road. Steps out gingerly onto the old and curling tarmac for a moment, and runs his hand on the ageing wood of the gate. There's a sense of unease he can't quite shake, and he breathes in the mottled smell of air, rolls it around his mouth absently. 

He tastes like saliva, and his tongue feels oddly dry in the wet of his mouth. It's puzzling for some strange, unfathomable reason.

Quietly he steps back onto the grass, and steps round the front of Gateway Cottage. "Hello?" He calls at the faint scratching noise that comes from the front door, and presses his ear to the faded wood, "Is anybody in there?" He calls. There is a pitiful, indignant meow, and Balthazar draws away from the building with a blink.

This is his house as well, he reminds himself as he cracks the door open. The wood strains and whines as he throws himself against it, there is a snap and he is thrown into the house. He ends up coughing reflexively as he takes in the sight of a rather thin - though smug - cat. The air is thick and unpleasant with dust, and he wrinkles his nose. This cottage passed into his possession after the elderly occupants passed away and left it to the sweet boy they'd known as he grew up, but frankly, he's let it fall into disarray. Every spare space in the building is clustered with papers and thin, delicate looking boxes.

He cautiously eyes the steep staircase to the second floor, but leaves it be as the cat winds around his legs, "Oh knock it off you mangy thing," He mutters as he sweeps elegantly into the kitchen. He fumbles with the pantry, and finds a tired, leaning sack of cat food. He tries to pour it into a bowl, but most of the tattered looking cat food ends up on the floor instead. Still, the skinny cat is happily eating as Balthazar investigates the pantry further. He appropriates a cheap and dusty bottle of wine, pops it open over the sink and wanders out the front door again.

Against the side of the woodland is a statue. Ostensibly it is the father, son and holy spirit, but it looks more like three malshaped, abstract and fey creatures had melted into one another. Frozen to a cheap granite. It is an ugly looking statue, and had frightened him as a child, with its lack of humanity and chilling familiarity. Nevertheless, Balthazar perches in the seat made by the three shapes, and tucks his legs up, the stone scratching at the soles of his feet. Suckling quietly on the cheap wine, he settles back against the - he supposes father - jarrs his head on the crook of its half-dissolved arm.

It is a strange night, he decides as the cat hops up and curl against his bare feet. Its thread-bare fur is warm, and dry and he cards a hand along the back of the animal. Takes another swig of wine that sticks in his throat like stale sugar. The next day he hires a croatian illegal to mind the wretched cat, and books a flight to France.

 

**ii.**

He forgets that strange night over the next four years. It had seemed terribly important at the time, but he has other important things to mind, such as the state of his trust fund. Far from running out, there is a sudden dump of money into it, and his accountant shrugs. Some dead relative he's never heard of. He doesn't like it, but the research falls to a dead-end in Moravia, so he retreats to Prague and reflects on his family.

His father is interred in the earth, and whenever he tries to imagine his father's face, all he can picture is his own. He finds it arrogant. The relative should rightly be on this side of the family, but he can find almost nothing. Essentially nothing. It leaves a sour sense of failure in him that he tries not to worry over.

His mother is an afterthought. Her contributions in his life begin with his last name and end with his first. Couldn't stand to have her only son named Balthazar, and generally couldn't stand him anyway.

The thing is - he's standing, arms hooked behind his back in the torture museum over Charles' Bridge - and that entire evening comes back to him after a moment, “ **Mohu vám pomoci?** " He asks in czech, follow through with English, " **Can I help you?** "

The moment is wrapped around a blue-eyed, loose-haired man who is staring at him like he's seen the dead walk the Earth. It's an odd expression, almost pitiful. The poor man is sucking in air as though he has been twisted and wrung out, as if he has come to life that moment, and the sound is so greedy it pulls at Bastien's gut hard-

"You remind me of someone I used to know."

He has to look away, scans the pears of anguish distractedly, "Used to know?" He can feel a story humming at the edges of this guilt-strained voice, "Well that's no good, now is it-" And the man is gone, and he almost laughs. As though he's seen some apparition that gave him a run for his manners, a good hit-and-run of deja vu and is already vanished as though they were never there, "Rude," He decides.

He makes it to the last floor of the torture museum, as always, damningly analytical about it. The encounter slips his mind as he studies a poorly drawn illustration of the spanish horse in use. He clicks his tongue. Examines the anatomy dispassionately, the poorly depicted agony on the man's face. Frankly, this warrants a midnight bar crawl from Řepy to the tail-end of the Olomouc district. Ends up laughing into the Újezd statue's face, breath warming the metal, runs his finger over the gaps in the statue, digs them in like he's looking for a hole in the back.

 

**iii.**

He has a meeting with his accountant in Budapest, and half-wallowing, reports he could not locate an I.P in the family, nor a Yuriy Nater, and his accountant is more smug than his cat. He's absolutely disgusted with his inability to trace some alleged relative he's never met, that his father allegedly knew, that allegedly has never existed. It gives him that same sense of unease he has failed to drown out in all his years. So he stalks to an overpriced café, dumps the letters he has from his father out on the table. They're written in- -he's not sure, some strange mix of katakana and hellenic that makes no sense.

He examines the code over a cup of gritty coffee, that he can't bring himself to enjoy. He's paid well-enough for it, but-

Well, Balthazar is a man of quality, and apparently coincidence, as the man from Prague appears in the window. Just glancing past, but Balthazar feels as though he's been scraped by a comet. Hurriedly, he raps on the glass, and ends up poking his head through the window, calling after the rude stranger, and letting the cold in, " **Hé, salut!** " The words fumble out of his mouth in french, but the man turns-

"Please," He clears his throat, settles into English, "Let me buy you a drink," And he is a man of quality and coincidence and sheer, frantic luck because the man steps back into the café and Balthazar smiles up at him as he approaches.

"I'm sorry, you have me at a loss," He's told far too carefully for his liking - it's not like he bites.

"No, I know you," Balthazar's smile falters, and he taps a knuckle on the table-top as he pretends to have trouble placing this man, "Charles Bridge, right? That godawful torture museum?" He can't help but laugh at the thought, because once again this man is staring at him like he has seen the first morning break open. Shatter upon the floor of time, spill out. Like the universe is one big mess he has to tidy up, and Bastien is the biggest puzzle of the entire thing, "You stared at me like a dog with a bone." He looks so contrite as he apologizes, that Balthazar blushes for him, and waves his hand to hide it, “Think nothing of it, really,” He gestures at the seat opposite him, “But do grace me with your company - what brings you to Hungary.”

“Shopping,” The man answers somewhat too certainly, and Bastien brushes his hand across his face

"Huh, not the most intuitive place for shopping, but I can scarcely talk, just here for sightseeing," It's not true, and he grins haplessly. He's here to reflect on the neverending mystery of his family history. Practically a crypt for a closet with the skeletons they have. Had to get dear father drunk - absolutely sloshed for even a hint, and he grins at the thought. He offers a hand to the man, the grin fading as he remembers himself, "Sorry, how awful of me, I’m Bastien," but he has never felt like one.

The man has a grip that just about shorts him out, it's so strong - he's surprised, delighted like he's found an inconsistency in this man, "Cas," He's told smoothly. The name rolls in his mouth as he repeats it silently.

"That short for anything?" It sounds like it's short for something, like the end of it is struggling for more.

Cas looks breathlessly sheepish, "Castiel," And there it is, that quirk of noise, that soft 'el' Balthazar has on the tip of his tongue. "My father was quite interested in angelology," Castiel adds belatedly, an explanation Balthazar doesn't even need. Still, he can sympathize, Bastien is scarcely the bastion of first names.

He gestures so easily, "Oh how unfortunate," He adores the name Castiel, as it sits in his mouth so fiercely, wells wet and damp in his palate. But Castiel seems so embarrassed by it, as though he should be shorn from God and left a shield. Balthazar can't help but agree with him, for Castiel is so earnest when he apologizes for his name. He realizes his faltering manners, and quickly soothes, "Still, one can hardly talk," He points at himself, "My father liked Shakespeare; I was almost a Balthazar," He felt like a Balthazar, something coy and vicious in him states. He assumes it to be a stray objection to his mother leaving him. "You know the crossdresser from The Merchant of Venice?" Nobody ever does.

"Or the follower of Don Pedro from Much Ado about Nothing, merchant from The Comedy of Errors and-" Castiel asks, and Balthazar leans forward sharply.

"And another minor role in Romeo and Juliet," Whoever Castiel is, they know their Shakespeare. Balthazar's father loved his Shakespeare, explained 17th Century dick jokes in lewd, playful detail to his skinny son,"Well as you can see I got off rather lightly, Bastien isn’t nearly so bad," Except it's awful. "So what brought you to Prague?"

"Sightseeing," Castiel tips a head at him, narrows his eyes curiously. By god, they're blue, "You speak czech?" The question shakes Balthazar out of a lazy, fugue state.

He's not one to brag, but, "A bit of everything actually," He has a joke practiced for every time he need to explain the hyperpolyglot in him, "I think when God was handing out the stat points, he decided I needed languages more than I needed anything else. It’s why I spend most of my time travelling," Except he doesn't know why he feels so homesick, "Seize the day," as if, "Use what you’ve been given," never, "You know all that," except it's only something that helps, because Balthazar knows he woke up shaken loose one day and has never been in step with his breath since. He's busy trying to fill in some deep hole in the gut of him. Feels as though his roots were pulled from the soil one day and left to moult in the air.

Castiel nods and takes him at his word, "Yes, I understand," Those eyes are gazing at him with interest, as though there is something Castiel wants to ask him more than anything else, and Balthazar feels eager for the question. It strikes him that for all his taste and coincidence and fickle luck, he wants to drown himself in this stranger, just a little, "Do you have any language preferences?"

He blinks-

"Well I was raised on French and Latin," Balthazar replies haltingly.

“ **Curae lingua educatum parentes vestros**?" And yes, his father had cared for his linguistic education. Filled his head up with a playwright's your mother jokes, snarled about Alexandra-Sandra-Cassandra and he can't even remember his mother's name, only that his father could call her a whore in every language in Balthazar's throat. Traitor. Judas.

Dully, his throat responds, "Sic," It's nothing but a bad memory, and it's incredibly distracting: that flicker of pain and betrayal and anger that floods his senses. That smell of crisp, rotting autumn and sneezing dust. He wants to bury himself alive in Castiel, not a memory.

“ **Combien de langues parlez-vous?** "

“ **Hontoni, oboetenai.** " Truly, he can’t.

And then he hears something that has his brain light up in a splutter of sparks, and he's crowding far too close to Castiel. Desperate to listen. It's a garbled flow of words, guttural and graceful on Castiel's tongue, rich in his mouth, and- well Balthazar is simply going to have to get to know Castiel better, because there's no use in pining for that stranger from Prague. Fate is rarely friendly twice, what with that stick up lady luck's arse.

"Sorry," He shrugs, breathes, "That's not one I know."

"It’s fairly obscure," Castiel looks so contrite, so guilty and apologetic, and Balthazar takes a sip of his drink to wash every other language from him.

"Whatever it is," He must have it, must conquer it, must drown in it, drink it from Castiel's open lips, "It sounds gorgeous," He brushes his papers away, pushes a map over them. He smiles winningly at Castiel, stained bloody with desire right down to his heels, crisscrossed at his sternum, and up to his throat, "You seem to be quite a cunning linguist yourself," Oh and such a terrible line. More's the pity.

"It's called Enochian," And the word has something stuttering in Balthazar, something snapping into place at the crux of him, so he scrabbles for it.

"Oh, I've heard of that," Has he? He's leant right across the table, arms placed over his father's letters protectively. "You weren't kidding when you said your father was into angelology," There we go, the knowledge settles into place, and Balthazar is only half-calm at knowing something now he did not before, "That's angel talk isn't it? Angel babble?" As though he should call such a glorious thing babble, like calling Castiel's eyes blue. There is something flickery, fluttery bright in those eyes, like a hummingbird with its wings in a figure of eight. Some notion of infinity.

He's momentarily lost, off-kilter again.

"Yes," He's bloody raptured, isn't he, "It is not dissimilar to Latin," And he's on that information as quickly as he can.

Voice soft, "Oh," Stares at Castiel shyly through his eyelashes, careful not to show his hand, "I don't suppose you'd be giving lessons?" Oh he's bluffing, throwing everything into this bet, "I'm a quick student," And god help him - it sells.

 

 **iv.**  

Balthazar ends up courting him, quietly and desperately and easily. It's practically ridiculous, except he can't help it and that launches it abruptly from ungainly and adorable to painful and agonizing. He feels like he's got the sea at his back, and all of sudden his strange family history is- unimportant. He screens his accountant's calls. Focuses his considerable attention on Castiel, who is easy and unassuming but sometimes Balthazar thinks he can hear - god help him it's such a cliché - angels when he looks at Castiel. He's going to laugh himself to tears about this later, that he is sure of.

He isn't sure if he wants to press his hands to Castiel's waist, and push him back against the kitchen counter, lick this Enochian from his mouth. Or whether he just wants to roll Enochian in his own mouth, because he tastes less like saliva speaking it. He ends up pressing every urge down - no need to rush - and that hardly works, because there's no use in pining for Castiel from Prague. They're discussing tense, and Balthazar's muscles are vibrating; there is that familiar howl of angels and feathers.

He takes a steady swallow, pulls the wine in his mouth, lets the alcohol smooth over his unsteady nerves. 

And then reaches forward to kiss Castiel, and between the flavour of the wine, there is a terrific sunflash of monsoon and drought. He's startled by it, and leans back, and Castiel bumps against his forehead, kisses there along his hairline. There is another flick of light in Balthazar's chest, his heart is constricted and his back is stinging so he leans in again, maps his hands to Castiel's waist and- Castiel pulls away.

"I'm sorry," And why does Castiel keep saying that?

He studies Castiel for a moment, and there is a hot curl of guilt in those eyes. The poor man looks hideously regretful of everything, and Balthazar feels miscalculated - even regretful himself. He breathes out hard as it fills him. What was he thinking?

"Oh stop with the puppy dog eyes Cassie," He cuts over, and reaches across to retrieve his glass. He needs this badly. "You'd think you murdered my grandmother with a face like that," Truthfully he'd never met the woman, and smiles easily at Castiel. This is awkward, but nothing that isn't fixable. What is a matter of unrequited really? Castiel is pleasant and knowledgable, and likes sunsets, and homemade pasta and they flow from language to language. He'd trade a thousand flashy kisses for one more word.

 

**v.**

But no, it's not very fixable, and he leaves. He does offer for Castiel to come along, but it's a half-hearted request. Instead he winds up back home for the first time in far too long. Climbed to the second floor of the cottage and stares the aching door down. Doesn't so much as dare. Ends up curled up on the damn statue again, nursing a more expensive bottle of sour, half-rancid wine. The cat leaves a dead sparrow by his feet, and looks up at him with lazy eyes.

"Go on, get out of here," He tells the cat moodily, "I don't even feed you," He's away from the house for four years. He has Demetri mind it. He has Demetri feed the cat; Demetri probably calls the damn thing a name as well. Balthazar thinks it might be Moxy.

He had lived in Leyswood his entire life, but four years ago he got royally sick of the place. He's not sure where the feeling came from, decides it was one of those middle of the night sensations. It's not even clearly linked to anything - granted, most of the people he grew up with are dead, but that had been years ago. Same with his departed father. None of it is what triggered his inability to remain at Leyswood; it's this sense of disquiet he's been nursing for the past four years. 

He licks at the neck of the bottle quietly. 

He's tried to pull whatever it is out before, but it leaves him feeling more disconnected than ever. He's gotten drunk - he's fucked - he's come, with his legs shaking, and his head spinning, and his voice a throaty cough of cheap slivovitz. His head has swum through a haze of opiates, and his stomach has writhed through a handful of prescription medication. He drinks thick coffee, makes a pot of expensive tea, eats a cheap and cold meal from McDonald's- 

Nothing kills the feeling. He groans, cradles his head against the statue. He's spent four years feeling less and less real. He can't even remember his mother's name. Can't remember his father's face. He doesn't know if he's thrown the memories away in his wild quest for oblivion, or if it's just taken time. If it's just something you forget. He has no idea what Leyswood has that sets his skin crawling.

" **Orsbus, orsbusma,** " And the language is still the most perfect thing he's tasted, except-

Castiel who splits him open with disquiet, startles him. Afterimage tracks of light. That wretched chorus of angels. He drains the bottle with a self-satisfied gulp, because despite his best efforts he's pining for Castiel from Prague. He laughs, and then he cries, and hits his head on the granite of the statue, lobs the bottle to the ground and keeps laughing, hiccoughing.

 

**vi.**

Lady Luck is fucking smirking at him - of this he's sure - as he crawls into the booth, opposite Castiel, "Cassie," He murmurs, he can feel his eyes shining. It may not have been fixable at the time, but Balthazar can't begin to imagine what stars have aligned for this. He's been in America for a month now, and this is the third chance encounter, third country- just the universe is tapping a message into his spine, and he'd be a fool to ignore it. "Long time no see!"

He leans forward, and takes a fry from Castiel's plate, dips it in the tomato sauce, and licks at it cautiously. Shyly examines the men sitting with Castiel. The one next to Castiel is a green-eyed thing of beauty, and Balthazar can't decide if he hates him or rather likes the no-nonsense expression he can see on the man's face.

"Long time no see, Bastien" Castiel agrees with a stuttering sound lodged at the back of his throat. He's so sweet, that Balthazar is so close to shuddering at the taste, "How long have you been in America?"

He goes for another fry, and he grins nervously at Castiel, "Popped over a few weeks ago," And he babbles, "Imagine my surprise when I saw you in the window," Who would have thought I'd ever see you again? Do you believe in fate? I do, I do, I do. The man next to him his gaping, "Well do shut your mouth before you catch fries."

Castiel looks between the men, "Will you be staying long?" and Castiel is locked onto Balthazar, and something in Balthazar jumps to alert at the feeling.

"Who knows," He lies with a shrug of his shoulders, and looks down at the table. Thinks his heart may have stopped because it's Enochian on the table, a perfect string of letters. He licks his lips, tries to clear the dry and cloying feeling from his mouth; he wants to wash it clean, murmur in Enochian. Instead he picks the paper up, examines it closely, "Oh I know this, something about protection?" He's really not sure, and a current - electric and painful and familiar - crawls through his fingers, so he drops the paper, "So- who are your friends, Cas?" -tiel, "You haven't introduced us," One of them is tall, the other is offensively tall, "I'm afraid I'm at a complete loss."

"This is Sam," The absurdly tall one, "And Dean Winchester," The pretty looking thing with the freckles. "Sam, Dean," They both focus on him with such familiarity that Balthazar feels off-put again, "This is Bastien, I met him whilst travelling in Hungary."

"Well we met in Prague," He feels nervous and it bubbles out of him in a frothy chuckle, "He looked like he'd seen a ghost," He'd stared at him so shamelessly that Balthazar's stomach curls at the thought. Something heated in his skin.

"Oh, I'll bet," Dean murmurs, gazing at Balthazar with a strange expression.

"At any rate, Cas here very thoughtfully taught me some of that," Balthazar nods at the page, and smiles winningly, "Enochian stuff his father taught him." Dean's eyes have flicked towards Castiel, lingering. Balthazar doesn't understand, but he makes him feel queasy. They're so at ease with each other and Balthazar feels like an unmoored ship. Steadies himself, and distracts himself by stealing a fry, "So, you three go way back then?"

"A number of years," And Balthazar can see those years plainly on them. It hangs and clutches at them. It's so obvious, and he laughs hard. Takes another fry because he needs to take something - anything - then.

 

**vii.**

He rather likes Sam and Dean, he announces to the room at large. They're obnoxiously tall, but he'll forgive them for it. He informs Sam of this choice very loudly, and cuts himself off with a laugh, because really, they're far too tall, especially Sam. His hands are loose, and shaky as he takes another long pull of wine. He likes wine, and Dean is hanging off another bottle of beer because he has no taste. Funny to look like a model and dress like a layered lumberjack. Balthazar rather likes the mix.

He's aware, absently, as they get progressively drunker that Castiel has a warning look of sobriety to him. His eyes are clear, his mouth set in a frown, and his expression is like a storm and Balthazar feels cast upon the cliffs with it. Shattered from the force of it. Dean is a puddle on the floor, and Balthazar can dance perfectly fine, and Sam is just absurdly tall.

There is a hot and cold burn of anger in him, that he really can't explain. He takes another heady, foolish gulp to dampen it, and it just makes the room spin.

Castiel pulls Balthazar into a bed, and Balthazar can see light dancing off his skin, and he reaches up - giggling, and laughing, and full of that hollow joy he sometimes feels - and clutches at Castiel in wonder. He thinks he can see shadows stretched out above him, and Castiel tucks his legs into the bed. He tries to help but his limbs are uncooperative at best, " **Orsbus, orsbusma,** " He lets Castiel know, and finally - blessedly - his arms respond. He hooks them around Castiel's neck, wraps them around the low-burning light under Castiel's flesh.

Something in him breaks; he thinks it might be his heart.

He tries to pull Castiel down towards him, and his head is singing, his back is stinging, every part of him in a concerted effort to press into Castiel. Kiss him openly like air in his lungs, exposure in his nerves, short-circuits in his veins- he stares up at the wings held over them. Protective, sheltering, shielding and of God. He converts on the spot. Would kiss prayers into Castiel's collarbone, if only Castiel was so much closer-

" **Nonci omasus,** I, I know you, **omasus,** " He has no second language between them, and his words are ragged, " **Nonci omasus, iasma ar?** " 

"That is true," Castiel's eyes fall, wings quaking in shame, and Balthazar bites Castiel's lip. Tries to yank the guilt out from Castiel with force, with love, with anything and everything he could offer.

But Castiel pushes him away, and Balthazar is left empty again, " **Etharzi esiasch olo,** " The words come out from some part of him that frightens and confuses him. But he wishes Castiel peace no matter what he understands, or knows. It's true to the marrow of him, and then, perhaps deeper-

He laughs, but it doesn't come out of him at first. It just drowns Castiel out. Fills the air, and then fills Balthazar's lungs and finally he is laughing loudly, shaking his head at Castiel in wonder, "God, I have never believed in Heaven, but you- -you?"

The laughter chokes him, and he is happy, pleased even as he drifts into unconsciousness.

 

**viii.**

He can hardly stand to be near Castiel, because he's embarrassed and regretful, so he leaves again. When he sees Castiel next, they end up standing too close, and he kisses Castiel again, and again and again until he's sick of himself. Doesn't know if he wants to avoid Castiel, or beg him to kiss him back. Instead, Balthazar climbs the stairs again, gazes at the door, brushes it under his fingertips and feels electricity. Ducks back into the garden, perches on the statue, waits.

Kisses Castiel again, like he's gravity and he's being held so steady he can't breathe. Another hot circlet of anger shakes him and he kisses it away. 

 

**ix.**

He panics when Castiel says they need to talk, because Balthazar doesn't do well at talking. Nothing good comes from we need to talk. Still, there is that old feeling of snapping to Castiel's words, and he sits down next to Castiel quietly enough. But Castiel is holding his hands, and Balthazar's heart is stutter-sharp, because this cannot go any way he wants it to. Can you have a break-up talk without being together?

"Cassie," Balthazar slurs unevenly, "What's this?" He doesn't want to know. This is standing at the top of the staircase, feeling diverted and redriven into a different shape. This is shutting the window on the autumn air.

"You will never speak to me again," Castiel frowns sadly, and his fingers tighten on Balthazar's, "You will tell me to leave you alone," And Balthazar wishes he could, but he knows he doesn't know how. He opens his mouth to admit it, to confess it like it's a secret, though it's hardly secret, but Castiel shakes his head, "Don't, please." 

Balthazar's voice drops inside of him, flutters unhappily into silence, "Okay," He murmurs, and then he just waits.

What he hears doesn't begin to make sense, "You were not born human," and Balthazar is so close to laughing right now, except Castiel is trying to divorce himself from his feelings. Balthazar knows that set of shoulders. That Castiel is so frightened of saying that hilarious line, that he is afraid to say it - that fear makes Balthazar listen. 

"You were born a creature of celestial intent," which sounds pretty, really, "Your wings weapons," it sounds like Castiel, with those wings Balthazar swears he can see sometimes. Like now, furled around them. It's sweet that he imagines Castiel holding him in fantastic, unreal wings. Balthazar is so choked on his crush, it's hilarious, and he wants to cry, "Your eyes wavelengths of lights," He can see comet trails in Castiel's irises, splaying ice-bright from his pupils, "We watched the Universe born," can feel the electricity of the divine on Castiel's skin, as Castiel bows his head and his voice cracks, "We fought for our Father," Balthazar cannot remember his father's face, "You were an Angel," and the entire world is screaming in half-holy song.

Balthazar shakes, "We fought in a war together," Castiel is returned, ascended from the fallen filth to his side, but Raphael- "A war you did not want," And he admits to being a thief, but never common, an angel of calibre and taste, "And when I-" He demands to be freed from Holy Fire, he saved Castiel- he always saves Castiel! "When I acted as though ends justify means," And Balthazar is soaked in a cold feeling, that unease- -that unexplained anger. That humiliating rage is suddenly everywhere. He hates Castiel, "You tried to save me," Castiel betrayed him, "And I stabbed you in the back," He feels like his spine is being sawed in half.

"I do not know why you have been revived," He remembers laying the safeguards, he must have- "Or why you are human," and he bloody well isn't, "I know that I cannot be what you need," And Balthazar gapes at him, "And cannot accept anything you have to give," Balthazar kissed him, he loves Castiel, "But I am in your debt," Balthazar blinks, a flutter of his vessel; his back hurts, "And I will give anything you ask," Everything, "But I cannot have you ignorant of what I have done to you," This? "Of what you and I were," And what had they been, Balthazar wants to scream, demand an answer. Castiel owes him as much, "I cannot be wanted-"

And that draws Balthazar to a dead end, because now something is definitely breaking inside of him: he flares his wings, shakes the edges of a soul from them with a wary shake, and then he runs before they even dry.

 

**x.**

He's at the Gateway Cottage in barely a thought, and is at the top of the stairs with perhaps half a thought. Brushes a hand at the door. Flicks the wards from it - he can remember laying them, dripping grace along the wood - there's a frantic fluttering inside the room, and when it opens, there's a trapped wren. He leaves it to panic amongst the eaves. The room is covered in papers, and it's his life. It's Bastien's life. Details, notes, a careful story. 

He placed the memories inside his own vessel; need only block his own memories to activate them. And there's a spell in there, to bring him to Leyswood House - four years ago now, when he was brought back to life by- -by God? He was revived, and brought to existence again, but his memories were divided. Blocked, and the false ones are triggered. None of it is- he has been trapped inside his own escape route for years and- none of it is real.

It's not his father's handwriting; it's his.

His wings are sticky with the viscera of being human, and he fans them gently. Dries them out, and cleans them with curls of grace. He is a butterfly pulled from its chrysalis. Some insect, fleeting and flighty and- He isn't sure how he still knows how, but he curls up against the wall- and so help him, he cries. It's ugly. Pulled from him by the roots. Sobs stained in the air. A hideous, clotting, halting noise.

 

**xi.**

He forgives Castiel, and the thought of it, the whole of it, makes him so furious he can hardly think. He spends hours hunting demons just to feel grace burn them out. He stalks into a dusty nightclub and finds a man who will throw him on the floor - act like they can pin him - and he lets them. He dumps a handful of codeine down his throat, until his grace is thrumming, and cleaning him. He feels so clean.

So he drinks until he retches, and is so self-satisfied at the burn of it, and the answering snarl of his grace. Wipes the back of his hand against his mouth. He doesn't even reek, and he fans a lazy wing out, catches the fabric of the universe with it. He feels so much, and so utterly, that he doesn't know what to do with it.

Somewhere in his madness, he realizes that Castiel told him before Balthazar tried to kiss Casti-fucking-el again. It doesn't take any of the anger away, but it makes him bitter enough to still himself for a few moments. He waits, arms crossed, wings bared like a snarl of teeth, and then goes to find some monster to rip apart with light.

 

**xii.**

"Shut up," He tells Dean pre-emptively, exploding into existence and seizing Sam and Dean by their shirts. With a snap of his wings they're at Leyswood. It's been months since he curled up here like a half-drowned wreck. He's half-tempted to head for the house; it's certainly more decadent. Instead he sweeps every last paper off the table in the kitchen, points imperiously at the chairs, "Sit," and piles the table high with alcohol, "Drink," He lunges for a bottle of red that will taste like- -like nothing, and the cat winds around his ankle. He'll rehome that ghastly bag of fur as soon as possible. He doesn't even know how it got into his cottage. 

"Bal-" Dean can't take instruction, and Balthazar gives him a lazy, and ugly expression.

"If you tell Castiel about this, so help me-" He leaves it hanging in the air, and drains the bottle slow, steady, firmly. Sam watches the bob of Balthazar's throat as he takes his fill in one go.

He got drunk with them once. They were tall, far too tall, and he got so drunk, but this time it's different. They're frustrated, Dean is ruder than anybody has the right to be. Thank god he's pretty, but Balthazar doesn't even care anymore.

"Where are we?" Sam asks hesitantly.

"England," Balthazar goes for another bottle, brushes a fingertip to Dean's forehead, clearing away the dizzy tipsiness that is beginning to well in Dean.

"What was that for?" Dean demands as his head clears. Honestly, anybody else would consider it a favour. Not this Righteous Man. Castiel may have pulled him from perdition, but did he pull him from the plague of poor manners? No.

"I don't want you drunk before me," Balthazar answers firmly, "We're getting drunk together, not you two getting drunk whilst I babysit."

Dean gives a careful nod, and Sam agrees readily enough, and they all reach for another drink. Balthazar wipes the alcohol from them every few rounds, and they've got bottles all around them on the floor, but they're all uncomfortably sober. Silent, sober and awkward.

He goes for another bottle, and groans as he finishes it. He can't feel any of it, but his gut is filled with that cold anger, "I died for-"

"For us," Sam is apologetic already.

Balthazar snorts in disdain, "For you? Oh no, no, no," He chides, "I died for Castiel," Pauses to take another bottle, "He killed me. He bloody killed me."

"You're alive enough," Dean mutters gruffly, and for that, Balthazar makes him stone-cold sober.

"But he killed me," Balthazar insists.

"Yeah," Dean slugs his drink.

"I liked you two better when I was human," Balthazar announces as the very edge of his nerves are getting dizzy, that hint of a stutter in his grace.

"Talk to him," Dean snarls round the neck of his beer, and Sam rummages through the drinks on the table for something interesting. Studiously ignores Dean, "Fucking talk to him," Dean repeats for emphasis, and Sam's sigh tells Balthazar the brothers agree on this.

"I want to- well maybe not stab him in the back," Balthazar has forgiven him, "Perhaps throw off a cliff. Certainly strike him," Balthazar has forgiven him heedlessly.

"Then do it, but stop bitching," Dean orders and Balthazar has another withering expression.

"I am not bitching, I am complaining," Balthazar sniffs, "This," He punctures his voice with a harsh, and tight tone, "Is bitching," He replaces his bottle on the table, and assumes a mock curl of his lips, "Dean, I have an ugly scar on my back, Dean I lived as a human for years, Deee-eee-an," He enjoys pulling that name between his teeth, "I tried to save his life, and he killed me, all because of you. I followed him into the bowels of Hell, and he let me play tongue-hockey with his tonsils whilst I was malleable and human and miserable, because he has the gall to feel guilty, Dean- -he doesn't deserve one inch of my time, Dean, Dean, Dean, fucking Dean," Balthazar glares at Dean across the table, and Sam straightens protectively, "He stabbed me in the bloody back like a coward."

Dean and Sam were hurriedly making eye-contact, or more Sam was hurriedly using eyecontact to indicate Dean shouldn't open his mouth, but Dean - fucking Dean Winchester - did it anyway, and Balthazar had the abrupt urge to shove something into Dean's mouth. Perhaps an entire bottle of wine?

"Talk," Dean cut his words into clear, angry pieces, "To him."

Balthazar leaned back, blinking at Dean, "Good lord," He demanded, "You told him to confess didn't you?" Balthazar is angry and there is no particular rhyme to it, plenty of reason, but it doesn't sit right in his gut, "Far as I'm concerned, you capuchins can buy your own way back to the states," And he's gone, feathers quivering, grace icy and he thinks he catches Sam about to yell at Dean.

 

**xiii.**

It's a glib line, but it is the alternative to launching himself at Castiel. Striking him, punching him, screaming at him. Because Balthazar has forgiven him, is angry to the roots of him, but he has forgiven him and Balthazar is better than lashing out. That's more human. And Balthazar has been a bit too human as of late.

So, it's a glib line- he opens his mouth and it tumbles out all unstudied, "Well, Cassie, you must be holy fire, because I am well and truly stuck on you," and the worst thing about unstudied lines is that they're cheap, but true.


End file.
